


tell me what you want me to say

by swallowedsong (bookstvnerdlove)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/swallowedsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>modern au<br/>p.i. emma + conman killian (with a side dose of cruella, because she is everything)</p>
<p>(she never expected to see him again, not like this, not with regret and desire mixed together. not while she was working a case and he was in the way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me what you want me to say

She spies him across the hotel ballroom, his tuxedo perfectly tailored and his hair artfully disheveled. She's seen that look on him so many times that her stomach squeezes for the briefest moment before she straightens her back and steels herself for the task at hand.

She's here with a job to do and he's just collateral damage.

_Handsome_  collateral damage, like always.

He stands, talking with a woman and a man, the tilt of his body slightly bored, slightly insolent. He looks, for all his air of danger and eyes that she knows are a flashing, deep blue, like he's always belonged there.

Even though she knows he hasn't.

He's holding a champagne flute, the tall slender kind, with the light golden liquid still near the rim. He hates the stuff. Or, at least, _hated_.

There's not much she knows about him now, but back when they'd been a  _them_ , when she'd arrived at events like this on his arm, he'd take glass after glass offered to him, strategically placing the untouched flutes back on the server's plates when he was done talking to whoever it was the crowded him. Even when she would order her usual from the bar, a whiskey, neat, he would stick to champagne and fake drinking.

"It's the scene, darling," he'd always said to her afterwards, when they were lying in bed, clothes decorating the floor of her loft, the hotel they were in for the night, any available room they could find.

He'd run his fingers down her back and she'd shiver at his touch. "They expect it. Must blend in, of course," he'd continue, in between the hot press of his lips against her skin - her neck, the curves of her breasts, her waist.

Lower.

He'd always been exceptionally good at that, his lips and tongue on her at just the right angle, just the right pressure. He could make her come in thirty seconds and he often made her wait thirty minutes.

___

If he sees her when she arrives, he makes no motion to her side. Not that she expects him to. They parted ways naturally enough.

Natural for  _her_ , at least, with the changing of her phone number and moving apartments without a goodbye.

She'd had too much trouble in her life, too much lying and too many criminals in her past that finally it had been enough, the constant hustling and the long game. In the end, try as she did, she couldn't stand the idea that she could be wrong about him. Wrong that despite his occupation ( _very_  unknown and clearly illegal), that he might actually  _care_  for her.

That he might be able to change and go straight like she had.

So she left him before he could hurt her.

___

He's with a woman, older, her hair half-white, half-black, and Emma wants to roll her eyes at the ridiculous affectation, that tinkling,  _darling_ that she drawls out in conversation, loudly. So loudly that Emma spins around and pins her gaze on the pair. She wants to hate it but it works for her, this flash woman who has an iron grip on her ex.

This woman who is also Emma's target.

They're obviously together, she muses as she watches them work the crowd. Working together, that is, not  _together_  together. Though, she narrows her eyes as she continues to watch their interactions, the way the other woman slides her hand along Killian's arm, and the way his lips widen to smile at her, she supposes it's not completely out of the question.

But, god, she hopes not.

And she hates herself for hoping.

When she'd received her assignment from Graham, she'd wanted to say no. She'd seen the file on Cruella and she knew the circles the woman was running in, with her black sequins dresses and her furs. She recognized the backdrops of several hotels, the swankiest of the swank. She'd been slammed with flashes of memory, memories of drinking and fucking until dawn in rooms upstairs, memories of whispered conversations out her earshot and the occasional lie on his lips.

Memories of his lips on hers, making her lose her mind until she didn't care if he was sinner or saint, as long as he was inside her.

___

She took the job anyway, because she's pretty sure she's a masochist.

___

She's at the bar, waiting for another drink when Cruella approaches.

"I believe we have a mutual friend, darling," she purrs, her hand catching the bare skin at Emma's shoulder, sending an uncomfortable jolt of awareness through Emma.

Emma shrugs, enough for the other woman's hand to slip from her skin. She shifts her body to face Cruella, her brow arched as she demurs, "Do we?"

"We can play this little game of cat and mouse later, my dear. Right now you have my boy too distracted, clenching that jaw of his when he should be smiling."

It's a punch to her gut that she still has the power to affect him like that, that in all her covert watching, she hadn't realized that he'd seen her.  _He's improved with age, if this is true_ , she muses.

Though, she must also consider the possibility that her target is lying through her teeth, even if _that_ is a dull comfort indeed. She opens her mouth to respond, but instead, Cruella places a finger to her lips and says, “Hush, darling. I’ve sent him away for the night. He's no use to me like this I'm afraid."

She spins away from Emma, the flash of her jewels and sequins of her dress flashing under the light. She turns one time to call back, "I’m sure you know where to find him," before disappearing into the crowd.

Emma remains frozen in place until the bartender’s voice comes from behind her, announcing her drink, which she drains in a single gulp.

___

He's toying with a cigarette she she finds him in the service hallway between the kitchen and the ballroom, rolling it between his fingers, eyeing it intently.

She clears her throat, because she doesn't know how to start the conversation, doesn't know if he'll be angry with her, or something far more dangerous. But she's prepared for either because they'd always done fighting and fucking very well. It was the in between she was never sure they could handle.

He lifts his head to meet her gaze and there's no surprise in his features, no there's just the curl of his lip as he sneers, "And so the lovely Swan finally reemerges."

It's a verbal slap and she probably deserves it, but she bristles anyways ( _prickly_ , as Elsa always says). They've played this game many times before. And she snaps back, "I've never known you to care about  _no smoking_  signs before. Or any rules, for that matter."

He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, and that's when she realizes that the fight doesn't quite reach his eyes. They aren't blank, there's far too much turmoil in them for that. But they aren't sparking in anger the way they used to, the way she'd expected, given his words.

She watches him steadily, waiting for his next move, because it suddenly feels like the rules have shifted on her, and she's not sure what new ones have taken root. He pushes himself off the wall where he'd been leaning and approaches her side of the hallway. He comes close enough to touch her, but he makes no move to do so. There's an arresting expression in his eyes and she wishes that it was anger instead of this nebulous unknown, because then she'd know what to do.

"You presume to still know me, love, after all these years?" He questions her, voice lethally soft.

Her throat closes around her breath until she has to cough to relieve the pressure. She shifts her legs as she remains standing, facing him, until she finally answers. "Some people never change."

"Oh?" He asks as he steps closer to her body, crowding her into the wall.

"And you," he continues as he touches her, a glancing brush of his fingers, sliding under the delicate strap of her dress. "Have you resisted change?"

"Yes and no," she answers honestly, her heart racing. His eyes shift to the place where she can feel her pulse fluttering rapidly. His fingers shift along her body until they reach that place, gentle as he traces her skin.

"I always  _wanted_  you, Killian.  _That_  was never the problem," she tells him without further prompting. For all his flaws and schemes, perhaps he deserves this much.

"Aye," he agrees as his fingers continue making a path along her body, now tracing her sharp collarbone, as he leans in to press a small kiss under her ear.

Her body leans into his, pure instinct, her hips finding his, his knee sliding between her legs, her already short dress shifting higher, and they both emit a low groan at the contact.

"I didn't come out here for this," she whispers as his lips hover over hers.

"Liar," he replies, and then his lips are on hers, his tongue sliding between her lips and tangling with hers.

Her fingers find his chest and curl around the lapels of his jacket, the soft material soothing, even as she falls deeper into his body, hot and hard as he presses her into the wall. He slides a hand down her hips, around her leg, and under her dress, pressing until she curls a leg around his, the heel of her shoe digging into his calf.

He bites at her lip, pulling and tugging until, hands shifting until they tangle in his hair, and she pulls his head back. His eyes are bright with lust, mirroring how she feels so perfectly. And because this was never their problem, it's so easy for her to say the words, "Service elevator."

He bites his lower lip as he considers her words for a moment before replying, "Room 1102."

___

He slams her against the wall of the elevator and his fingers look under the waist of her panties, dragging them down her legs as she presses the button for his floor. And then she's incoherent as they brush against her, sliding along where she's wet and aching. The heel of his hand grinds at her clit as his fingers work inside her and she presses her palm against the wall.

His lips are at her neck, finding the spot that makes her shiver as he murmurs words against her some, words she wants to ignore, words about missing her touch, her scent, her feel. She holds it together until he says, very clearly, "I missed _you_."

That's when she comes, her hips rolling, riding his hand until she can stand on her own.

Neither of them say anything as they both stare at the elevator door until they reach the eleventh floor.

___

She returns the favor by pushing him against the door when they reach his room, her fingers making quick work of his pants as they pool at his feet and she hooks her thumb at the waist of his briefs. She kneels as she slides them down his hips, and she wraps her hand around the base of his cock.

He makes the sound that she remembers, the groan at the back of his throat and the whispered, "Fuck," that escapes his lips as hers wrap around his tip and slide down.

She remembers exactly what he likes, the pace he used to set as his fingers wrapped around her hair, the hollow of her cheeks that makes his hips thrust harder, fucking into her mouth.

He doesn't touch her hair this time, but his thumbs press into her shoulders hard as she licks the underside of his cock, marking her in a new way as she moves to continue.

Maybe that's what changes things between them, she muses as he pushes her away, not hard, but enough that the momentum rocks her to her heels and she stands. Maybe because there's that element of different, he doesn't want to finish this the usual way, a little now, more later.

Because he knows as well as her that this is one night, and then it's back to their lives.

Separate lives.

He’s rough and quick as he tears at the zipper of her dress and drags it down her body. He grunts his appreciation of her lack of bra, as his hands curl around her breasts, tracing the curves gently, a contrast to moments before.

Her fingers shake as she pulls at his bow tie, unbuttons his shirt, and they continue to shake as she slides his jacket off his shoulders. He pulls his arms out of his shirt and her body is buzzing with anticipation, buzzing from the heat between them, that she’d always tried to forget, but never could.

She’s standing naked in her heels and her heart is pounding and all she can say is, “Fuck me.”

“Leave the shoes on,” he says as he walks towards her and backs her onto the bed. His hands glide along her legs, stopping at her inner thigh, and his thumbs trace gentle circles as he watches her. Her head falls back against the sheets as he increases the pressure, keeping her legs open. He nuzzles at her with his nose, his lips glancing against her skin. And part of her wants that, his lips on her, making her scream.

But instead she says again, “Fuck me,” and she repeats it until he slams into her, her legs wrapping around his hips. His hands travel up her body until they grip her wrists and he pushes her hands above her head.

Even though she doesn’t want it to be, it’s a fast ride, his hips circling, his hipbone grinding against her clit until she comes, so quickly, so on edge since the moment that she saw him again. She gasps for air as his teeth nip at her lips and he keeps thrusting, circling, until she’s almost ready to come again, and he stops abruptly.

She pushes against the grip he still has on her wrists as her eyes flutter open. They stare at each other for what feels like forever, their chests heaving, breath heavy. Then the switch flips again and he rolls to his back, pulling her with him. She flicks her ankles until the shoes fall of her feet and then it’s her turn to press his arms above his head, but instead of a punishing grip on his wrists, she links their fingers as she rolls her hips slowly.

She leans her body down until their chests meet, and his soft hair tickles her breasts. She finds her favorite place at the curve of his neck and she breathes him in as their motions become less practiced, less smooth, as they race to the end.

She’ll never admit it, but when he comes, she swears she hears him whisper her name.

___

She leaves before dawn breaks, the dark sky slowly turning purple then red, and finally, bright with the sun, as she walks down the street, his stolen tuxedo jacket around her shoulders. She can smell his lingering scent on the fabric as she pulls it tightly around her body, protecting her against the chill of the morning.

She left a note, this time. A simple  _I’m sorry_. For what, she doesn't yet know.


End file.
